


les temps immobiles

by brekkers



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, References to Terminal Illness, Self-Esteem Issues, Swearing, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop, Time Travel, i love making stuff a tad bit dramatic, implied sexy times but no explicit sex actually happens, martin goes THRU it but then again when doesn't he?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26736208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brekkers/pseuds/brekkers
Summary: When Andres dies, Martin finds himself jumping through time to save his life.(Inspired by the movies Mr. Nobody and Run Lola Run)
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 20
Kudos: 78





	les temps immobiles

There are people robbing the Royal Mint of Spain. 

They are clothed in identical red jumpsuits, and wear masks with the likeness of the painter Salvador Dali. They are armed, they have hostages, and they are dangerous. At least, that’s what the reporters are saying.

He knows Andrés is one of them. Though he never stuck around long enough to go into the details of the heist itself, he has a rough idea of how the brothers planned on doing things. 

_Sergio’s soulless heist_ , Andrés had once scoffed. Eons ago. 

Sometimes, Martín allows himself to reminisce about the days he spent with Andrés in the monastery. Lounging by the courtyard, listening to the monks singing hymns. But as soon as he remembers _anything_ to do with the Bank of Spain or their now abandoned plan, Martín finds that his wound is still gaping open, still _ugly_ and _raw_ , and the pain that leaks from it taints whatever joy or comfort those memories might have once given him.

If he had known it would be the last time, he would have savored it more.

The three of them had been in a sort of deadlock in those last few months, pitting their heists up against each other, trying to prove that their proposed plan was clearly the more superior choice.

Martín and Sergio had been especially competitive, vying for Andrés’s attention — his _approval_ , like two children screaming: _Pick me! Pick me!_ _I’m the best, I’m the favorite._ And Martín had been so confident, so _sure_ that Andrés would choose him. It was _their_ heist after all. Their plan, their magnum opus. A shared secret between them. Andrés promised him they’d melt gold _together_ and Martín believed him right up until Andrés pushed him against the wall and kissed him.

He’s always sort of known ( _accepted,_ really) that when the universe gifts him something so sublime as Andrés’s mouth on his, it was bound to take something _away —_

He just didn’t realize it would be Andrés himself.

The TV babbles on about the robbery and he knows he ought to turn it off. Maybe even lock himself up in this apartment just to avoid the chatter of the outside world— at least until this thing is over. He deserves to move on, after all. Deserves some peace of mind, free of Andrés and their lost dreams of molten gold. After months of binge drinking and crying himself to sleep, perhaps it would do him some good.

But who is he kidding? He’s never done what was good for him, especially not when Andrés was involved — and he’d be _damned_ if he starts now. 

He sits in front of the TV and tries to list down events as they unfold. Names of the other robbers, the police’s attempts to break into the Mint. So on and so forth. 

Despite all the complications, Martín actually believes this heist will be a success. _Well, Sergio is nothing if not meticulous_. Martín supposes he’ll have to give him a call one of these days, congratulate him for a job well done. _You were right, Andrés and I did have to part ways. Congratulations on the heist._

The next day, the robbers escape.

Except for one.

The minute Martín is finished screaming and crying his throat sore, he shuts his eyes with a shudder.

_One way or another, time will bring us back together._

And time resets.

***

Tatiana and him actually got along. At least, in the other timeline. 

She was smart, funny, and though Martín hated to admit it — she complimented Andrés in ways he never could. Not even if he tried. 

Tatiana was a beautiful little thing — a _goddess_ , as he himself called her once. She was someone Andrés could bring along to his fancy dinner parties, someone he could send to entertain his guests’ wives while he conned their husbands out of their money. Hell, she could even serve as a pretty distraction for one of his robberies. 

Martín, with all his rough and sharp edges, could never be the wife Andrés wanted. 

And in this reality, he lets all those insecurities loose. And it isn’t pretty.

“Say one more vile thing about my future wife, and I’m kicking you out.” Andrés says one day, not even looking up from his sketchbook. He doesn’t sound angry or annoyed. In fact, he sounds mildly amused. _Teasing._

It’s now a week before the wedding, and three days before Sergio is due to arrive. The latter Martín dreads more, knowing that Sergio will bring with him his plans for the Mint heist, and along with it, the certainty of Andrés’s death. 

The reminder is enough to drive him out of his seat and stomp towards Andrés like a man possessed. 

“Me or her?” he demands, hands on his hips.

Andrés looks up from his drawing and stares at him, brows furrowing.

“What did you say?”

Martín takes a deep breath and steps forward, feeling a sudden surge of confidence, though he doesn’t exactly know where from. Maybe because he knows those lips, now. Knows how soft they felt against his, and how kissing them had been both sweet and poisonous — like drinking honey laced with cyanide. _A rebirth and a death._

But this time around, he won’t let Andrés leave.

“I get it. She’s very pretty.” Martín continues, swallowing when Andrés narrows his eyes at him. “But she can’t give you what I could, Andrés. My mind, my skills, my ideas. My _devotion_. She will never melt gold with you, _but I will_.”

To his surprise, Andrés laughs. “What’s gotten into you, Martín? Too much wine? Perhaps take it easy, you're beginning to sound ridiculous.” He shakes his head and turns back to his unfinished sketch, a delighted grin still plastered on his face, as though Martín had just told him he’d grown two heads overnight. 

_Ridiculous._

“You want to know what’s really ridiculous?” Martín nearly hisses, swooping in and taking the empty seat next to him. At this, Andrés’s eyes widen slightly, clearly surprised by Martín’s sudden show of courage, but then his mouth slowly curls into a smile as he looks Martín up and down, intrigued by the day’s proceedings.

_Bastard._

They stare at each other for a while, like two boxers in a ring, squaring each other up. Trying to guess the other person’s game plan. Andrés seems insistent on holding his ground, to appear uninterested, but he’s stopped drawing and has since focused all his attention on Martín. Watching him, _challenging him._ As if to say: _Go ahead, say whatever it is you want to say or forever hold your peace._

So he does.

“ _Mitochondria_.” he whispers.

“ _What?"_

Martín kisses him then, open-mouthed and unabashed. And just like the first time, Andrés remains absolutely still, allowing Martín to wrap his arms around his neck, to pull him just a tiny bit closer. And even though he’s done this before, the sensation of Andrés’s mouth is still so _overwhelming_ , still _too much,_ and _too fast_ but also _not nearly enough._ Andrés’s touches feel like endless rain after a long drought. He wants it so bad he doesn’t care if he drowns.

“Melt gold with me.” he murmurs, pulling away by just a small fraction, afraid that if he moves any further Andrés will somehow vanish. When he leans in and kisses Andrés again, he’s thrilled and mildly surprised he isn’t being pushed away yet. What luck, what _stupid luck —_

“Are you really asking me to leave my fiancé seven days before we’re supposed to be married?” Andrés chuckles into his mouth, fingers tracing the line of Martín’s jaw, making him shudder. 

“I'm asking you to melt gold with me.” Martín says, gasping when Andrés pulls him closer, kisses him deeper. “But yes, that too. If you’d be so _kind_.” He groans to the touch, always loud, always eager, always desperately trying to savor what he can — 

Andrés withdraws his lips with a smack and looks Martín squarely in the face. His grin is wolfish and cruel. “And what makes you think I’ll leave Tatiana for you, hm?”

 _And there it is_. The thing he had always dreaded, finally put into words. The fact that they came from Andrés himself only made it infinitely _worse._ It feels like there’s a knife stuck to his chest and Andrés is twisting it, just for fun — for kicks, to see how long it will take until Martín screams.

“Well?”

He’s always known Andrés would never love him in the way that he wanted. In fact, he’d gotten used to it, had _accepted it,_ once upon a time _._ And it didn’t even matter what Andrés wanted him to be — a friend, a partner, an accomplice, a means to an end — as long as he was _there_ , by his side. He was content on bringing his love for Andrés to his grave, to die with the unspoken words lodged in his throat, like suffocating on them was his cause of death — 

But then Andrés kissed him and he got _greedy_. Andrés kissed him _once_ and now he’s here, against all constructs of the universe, hoping for the chance that he could do it again.

 _Stupid. Fucking stupid._

Andrés is looking at him like he’s expecting Martín to say something, to somehow answer an impossible question. 

_“I — ”_

And how quickly shame comes, how easily it overwhelms him. Like a marionette that had its strings suddenly cut, his body goes limp, all the energy and gusto gone in an instant. Soon he’s blinking back tears and trying miserably to stifle his sobs. 

When he tries to move away — _to run_ , Andrés grabs him by the wrist and _pulls_ , unwilling to let Martín escape with whatever shred of dignity he has left. 

“And where did all that courage go, I wonder?” Andrés taunts, keeping a firm hold on Martín’s wrist. “You can’t just kiss a man and leave, you know. It’s quite rude.”

Martín, in response, is a blubbering mess. “I’m sorry, I thought — _fuck —_ I didn’t mean — I’m _sorry —_ I misunderstood — ”

“Oh please. Do you think I don’t love you?” Andrés suddenly laughs, throwing his head back gleefully, as though the very idea of Martín not knowing _that he loved him_ was _absurd_ . “I’ve never felt anything with any of those women remotely similar to what I have with you. _Not even close_.”

“But — ”

Andrés groans and clicks his tongue, looking positively annoyed before he grabs Martín by his shirt collar, hauling him in for a kiss that nearly sends them both toppling to the ground. 

The lips on his are insistent, _hungry._ Martín moans when Andrés’s tongue slips between his teeth, when his hands start roaming down his back, sliding beneath the hem of his shirt. The kiss is deep and hot and it’s like he wants Andrés to just _swallow him whole —_

“You’re brilliant, Martín.” Andrés murmurs, squeezing his face, wiping the tears off of Martín’s cheeks because _of course he’d be crying,_ pathetic thing that he is _,_ unraveling at the slightest touch, the quickest kisses. “You’re brilliant, and loyal, and wicked, and _of course I’ll melt gold with you.”_ Andrés laughs then, low and sweet, nudging their noses together. “Oh stop crying already, will you?”

Martín sniffles and wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt. “ _You’re an ass.”_ he croaks. But Andrés merely chuckles to that, tipping his head slightly with a sly smile before pressing their mouths together once more, and they meld into each other like molten gold. 

He thinks maybe he’s saved Andrés, then. Has spared him of a violent end in a darkened tunnel beneath the Mint. And what’s more, Andrés _loves_ him. Andrés kissed him. Andrés isn’t leaving. He’s here and he loves him and — 

“Our heist will be beautiful.” Andrés whispers, like a promise. “The greatest the world has ever seen.”

But the heist is a _mess_. 

Sergio, _the vindictive little bitch_ , refused to offer his assistance. They were forced to go about the loopholes themselves, find their own people. Everyone but Andrés is a stranger. 

“We’re going to be fine.” Andrés keeps saying, hands fidgeting, pacing around the hall. Martín has seen Andrés angry, has seen him heartbroken, drunk, and even nervous. But this is the first time he’s actually seen Andrés _afraid._

“We’ll be _fine.”_ he says again, but it’s not Martín he’s trying to soothe anymore. “Stay close to me. I don’t trust any of these _hijo de putas_.”

“Andrés-”

“ _Martín_.” Andrés seizes his hands, pulls him close so that their chests are pressed together. “It’s going to be fine. We’re going to make it out of here, _together_. I promise.”

_They were so close too._

In the end, they are betrayed by one of their own, and the gold they have melted splatters to the ground as Andrés is shot by one of the military.

Time seems to slow as he falls, the once twinkling brown eyes now empty and lifeless. The grotesque image burns itself at the back of Martín’s mind, scarring him, haunting him. Andrés is _dead —_

Martín screams and resets time before he could get shot himself.

***

He travels back a little further this time, to just before wife number three.

And in this reality, Martín kisses him right after one of their heists — and _Andrés kisses him back_. It’s thrilling, confusing, but also _fucking_ amazing.

He doesn’t know how they got there, but eventually they find each other in bed, already taking their clothes off. Andrés is peppering kisses on his bare chest, a low groan rumbling from his throat. Then there are hands undoing his belt and Martín’s mind goes on absolute _overdrive_.

“ _Wait_.” He gasps, cupping Andrés’s face. He looks like an absolute vision, sprawled on top of him like that, glistening with sweat, his usually impeccably styled hair a bristling mess. _Dios._ Martín has to take a moment to collect himself. To _breathe_. “Is this really happening?”

Andrés cocks his head to one side, a lopsided grin forming on his face. “Don’t tell me you’re suddenly feeling _shy_ , are you Martín?” He leans in and presses his mouth to Martín’s neck, sucking gently. “Because I can stop if you want. Though I don’t think you want me to, do you?”

_Absolutely fucking not._

Martín groans and closes his eyes, allowing Andrés to pin him down, to kiss the hollow space beneath his jaw. His arms wrap instinctively around Andrés’s back, hanging on for dear life, prioritizing kissing over breathing. Only when he feels his pants being tugged off does the thought finally occur to him: 

“But what about your mitochondria?” 

“My what?”

“Your —” The words die in his throat when he feels Andrés touching him _there_. _There. Oh god, he’s really —_

When his mind stops spinning just long enough to look up, he’s met with Andrés grinning wickedly down at him, a glint of mischief in his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, but Andrés kisses him again, stifling his sentences back into moans.

“Andrés — ”

“Martín, _enough_.” Andrés leans back just far enough for Martín to see the exasperated look on his face, reddened mouth pressed into a thin line. “I’m beginning to have the impression that you don’t want to have sex with me.”

“ _I_ _do!”_

“Then why do you keep interrupting me?” He’s surprised when Andrés cups his face, holding him as gently as one might hold a porcelain cup. Delicate, fragile. He whimpers to the touch and Andrés leans down to kiss his face. “ _¿Qué pasa, mi amor?_ ”

He wishes he could somehow let Andrés slip into his mind, even for just a moment, so he sees what he’s seen. 

So he _understands_ just how long and how much Martín has been wanting this. 

Exactly this.

He wants to ask Andrés how it’s possible that he is kissing him now. Touching him, _worshiping him_ , with eager and hungry hands, like Martín was the one he’d been looking for all along. 

_He’s been there all along, through everything. Every heist, every divorce, every goddamn stupid thing that pops into that wicked mind, Martín was there and he never faltered —_

Yet the Andrés he knew only kissed him once. And that was just to say goodbye.

“Martín.” 

He pulls Andrés down and their lips meet again. The sensation still feels like swallowing fire and Martín supposes he’ll _never_ get used to kissing Andrés. Never. Especially not when he’s being devoured like this, when Andrés is just as greedy and just as carnal, his desire matching Martín’s with equal fervor, if not _more._

_I’d give anything to feel that, but it’s impossible._

“You feel so good, Martín.”

_We are soulmates, but only 99 percent._

“ _God_.” Andrés moans. “It’s like you’re custom made. Just for me.”

_It’s impossible. It’s impossible._

Something between a whimper and a laugh crawls its way out of Martín’s throat. Pathetic and contradicting. It only makes him tighten his grip on Andrés’s shoulders, makes him cling even harder, as though the minute he loosens his hold, Andrés would get up and simply walk away again.

“Do you love me?” he croaks, before he could stop himself. 

And just like that, the regret comes almost instantaneously, like the rush of water from a broken dam. He braces himself for Andrés’s laughter, or his ridicule, or his _disgust —_ but he doesn’t come close to being prepared for the way Andrés kisses him, lips firm but tender against his, infinitely reassuring and without a hint of uncertainty. 

“It’s possible.” Andrés says, and kisses him again.

They make love often in this reality. Sometimes it’s slow and passionate, like their first time, when they want to savor each other’s bodies, to test which spots elicit the most pleasurable moans. Other times, it’s hard and rough and fast and Martín practically _begs_ Andrés to just _take what he was offering already Jesus Christ please —_

One day, Andrés casually refers to him as “my boyfriend” and Martín feels like he could just burst on the spot.

“Well you are, aren’t you? Andrés grumbles, easing Martín to lay on his chest, hands absentmindedly stroking his back. “Or would you prefer something more formal? Husband perhaps?”

Overtime, he learns things about Andrés that he never had a chance to in those other timelines. For example: Andrés is a cuddler, and he’s affectionate, and he loves getting scandalized looks from strangers when he holds Martín’s hand in public.

They stay together for three years, wild and blissful, and Martín starts to think this universe is the best possible one.

But then, Andrés’s hands start to shake. 

It takes a lot of convincing, a lot of yelling, and even when Andrés had _already agreed_ , Martín still practically drags him to see a doctor. 

“I know you’re worried, Andrés. But it’ll be fine. It’ll be _fine._ ” He curls his hand around Andrés’s and kisses each knuckle. “You’re going to be fine, _mi amor._ I’ll make sure of it.”

A diagnosis is made. Grim, three years at most. The first night Martín injects his medications, Andrés is silent and unmoving. He sits on the edge of the bed with a glazed look in his eyes, staring as Martín kisses each of his knuckles again. This time however, there are ugly, reddened marks from where the needle cut through skin.

“I don’t want to die.”

Martín kisses the back of his hand before looking up to meet his eyes. “I don’t want you to die either, _mi amor._ ”

Andrés gives him a watery smile — but he doesn’t cry — would never allow himself to. Not even in front of Martín, and especially not when he’s at his most vulnerable, his most exposed. 

It’s only when Martín wakes up in the middle of the night to his loud sobbing does the crushing weight of their reality finally set in.

 _Andrés is sick. Andrés will die._ And Martín would be losing him all over again.

Different story, the same ending.

“ _Martín_.” Andrés keens, hands desperately reaching for him in the dark. When he feels Martín’s arms wrap around him, he slumps back into bed with a sob. “Don’t leave me.”

Martín hushes him, kisses his tears away, ignoring how his own eyes start to sting. “I won’t leave you. I’m here. _Shhh_. _T_ _ranquilo_. I’m here.”

He keeps his arms wrapped tightly around Andrés, savoring the sensation of their skin pressed together, relishing the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. When Andrés eventually drifts back into sleep, Martín inches closer and listens to the beating of his heart, telling himself to commit the strong and steady thuds that he hears into memory. 

_I will never have this again._

Andrés seems to stir, and Martín watches him, stroking his cheek with his thumb. Soon he settles back down and Martín takes the opportunity to reach over and press one final kiss to his mouth. 

“I’m sorry, Andrés.” he sniffs. 

And time resets.

***

He’s sixteen and he runs away from home with a backpack full of his parents' savings. He moves from Buenos Aires to Spain and meets Andrés in high school. Biology 101. He’s surprised how easy it was to become his friend, but that’s years of experience for you.

“Have you ever heard of Helmer’s myopathy?”

Andrés tips his head and laughs. He’s still got a boyish face, and his hair is much messier than the styled one Martín had grown familiar with, but despite the lack of refinery and aged elegance — he was still _Andrés_. Still just as handsome and still every bit of a bastard as his older counterpart would be.

“What the hell is that?”

“Genetic disorder.” Martín clicks his tongue, adjusting the microscope before scribbling down his answer. _Mitosis_. “Really bad, I hear. How’s your mom doing?”

Andrés shakes his head, amused — always amused by the ridiculous things Martín says. “You’re really smart, you know that right? Really smart but also really fucking weird.”

“How is that weird?”

He flicks Martín’s hands away from the microscope and pulls it towards himself. “Relax, Martín, that’s not an insult or anything. I _like_ that you’re so smart.” He chuckles as he looks into the viewfinder, writing his own answers down. “I just thought it was a little weird to suddenly bring up. A genetic disorder? Really? How do you come up with that sort of nonsense?”

“I mean, it doesn’t hurt to get tested. You might even thank me for it.”

Andrés groans, clearly bored of the conversation. “Whatever you say Martín.” he snickers, rolling his eyes with a flourish. “ _Anyway_ , on to more pressing matters. I still have three questions on this that I’ve left blank.” He lifts his notebook up. “Can you tell me what you call the powerhouse of the cell, again? I always forget that one.”

He didn’t think it would work, but somehow, Andrés does get tested. Maybe he thought it would be funny, to show Martín he’s willing to play along, to humor him. _I can be weird like you too sometimes, Martín._

But as soon as he gets the diagnosis, Andrés distances himself from him. They no longer talk, no longer hang out. He walks past Martín in the hallways without so much a look or a nod. 

It’s devastating. 

In this universe, Martín had given everything up to save him — his family, his prospects, his chance to exist beyond Andrés. And this is what he gets in return. This is his reward.

It’s worth it.

After all, it doesn’t matter so much that Andrés doesn’t want him as long as he’s _alive_. That in itself outweighs the pain he feels from being rejected, from being thrown aside. He could go on living like this, even if he ends up a pauper on the _streets_ , if it meant there was a tiny, _miniscule_ chance that Andrés would be cured. A sacrifice on his part, yes, but a necessary one.

“Why did you do it, Martín?” Andrés asks one day, when he least expects it. 

Martín hadn’t gone to school that afternoon and was spending the last hour or so smoking behind a grocery store. His usual haunt, so of course Andrés knew where to find him. _Andrés always seems to find him —_

“What do you mean?” 

Andrés huffs, like he caught Martín in the act of a crime. “You’re cheating.” 

“ _Pardon_?”

He doesn’t see it coming. 

Andrés pushes him up the wall, grabbing him by his coat, fingers twisting into the fabric. Their eyes lock for a split second, and Martín shudders when he’s suddenly kissed; _and_ _oh_ , Andrés definitely hasn’t practiced enough — because his kisses are clumsy, boyish, and their teeth collide in miscalculated passion. When Andrés pulls away, there is blood on his lips.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” Andrés says, dark eyes narrowing. “Leave. I don’t want you here.”

“What do you mean you don’t want me here?”

Andrés gives him a strange look, full of meaning to Martín’s eyes, yet infinitely undecipherable. He’s still standing so close that Martín could feel the heat of his breath on his face, could smell the thick cologne on his blazer. All he needs to do is tip his toes forward and — 

“You’re bleeding.” Andrés says, like it had just occurred to him. His eyes are locked on to the cut on Martín’s lips, and Martín quickly licks over it with his tongue, tasting metal.

“Andrés — ”

“ _Leave_ , and heal your wound.” Andrés pulls back from him and suddenly it’s like he’s miles away. Beyond Martín’s reach. “I don’t want to see you here ever again, do you understand, Martín?”

He doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t wait for a response. He merely turns on his heels and walks away, leaving Martín paralyzed on the wall, staring after him. 

An eerily familiar scene.

“Andrés, _wait —_ ” 

He finds himself already chasing after Andrés, running as fast as he can. His shoes are cheap and they hurt when his feet meet the pavement but _he doesn’t care_. 

In another life, Martín had let him go — to Sergio, to the Mint, into the arms of _death_. This time around, he won’t let him get away, _refuses_ to lose him like this again.

And he’s almost there, almost catches up to him. There, right in front of him — 

He stretches his hand out _and —_

— time starts again.

***

It resets to the day he and Andrés meet for the first time. 

The bar, the fight. He avoids it completely, opting to stay in his cramped and creaky apartment, trying to tolerate the blistering Argentinian heat — not taking any chances by stepping outside. Who knows what sort of handsome Spanish gentlemen he might run into?

When the clock strikes 12, he feels like Cinderella running away from her prince, frightened and ashamed.

Andrés would be in that bar by now. He would have met someone else, become their friend or foe or whatever. But it isn’t Martín this time. And though he can’t help the pang of jealousy he feels just _thinking_ about someone else replacing him, taking his spot in Andrés’s life — he hopes that at least, this life would be a little less painful for both of them.

The next day, he gets a knock on his door.

“Hello.” says Andrés, clad in a long black coat, a polite yet mischievous smile on his face. “Martín Berrote, is it?”

_No fucking way._

Martín stares at him until Andrés tips his head to one side, lips pursing as if trying to hide a smile. “May I?” he asks, already brushing past Martín and sauntering into his apartment, like he owned the place. Like he knew Martín would _let him —_

“I have a job that needs to be done, and it requires a man of your particular expertise.” Andrés says, nonchalant. Then he’s surveying the apartment, looking through every corner, poking the books on Martín’s shelf, staring out the window. “I will pay you generously for your work and for your absolute discretion.”

He takes the job, but decides to get it over with as quickly as possible. No small talk, no conversations, nothing that would give Andrés any reason to linger around and — _god forbid —_ end up befriending him. 

So he works, quietly and diligently, trying his best not to steal glances. Yet he can’t help but notice how _fascinated_ Andrés seems to be at how fast he is at completing the previously impossible task. How it looks like he knows exactly what to do and when to do it.

(Why wouldn’t he, he’s done this _exact thing_ before — )

“Have you ever been to Italy?” Andrés asks, breaking the almost two hour long silence. 

It takes all of Martín’s strength to stop himself from screaming: _Yes. Of course I have. A thousand times, because of you. Remember when you bought that fucking monastery and you asked me to help you furnish it? We must have stolen from every antique shop and every goddamn museum in Florence. You said we would conquer the world —_

“Never been.” Martín says instead, because he needs to _get a grip and remember what he’s here for_. “Why do you ask?”

Andrés grins and then shrugs. “I don’t know. I just felt compelled to ask you, for some reason. Your face seems oddly familiar.”

Martín can’t help but snort. “My face isn’t exactly common.”

“No.” Andrés concedes with a chuckle. “You’re right. Certainly not.”

A beat passes, but it feels like time has stretched somewhat. As if this moment holds more significance than either of them could ever hope to grasp.

Andrés reaches for him, taps on his shoulder, and when Martín turns to meet his gaze, Andrés’s eyes seem to glow like lost visions of liquid gold.

“Perhaps in a past life, then.” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “If you believe in such things.”

Martín finishes the job, and when Andrés offers him money, he takes it. 

“Funny, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“This.” Andrés says, pointing his fingers between them. “It’s like you and I were fated to meet.”

Martín shrugs.

“Maybe if you’re still around, I can come by tomorrow. At around noon perhaps. I have an offer you might be interested in.”

“We’ll see.”

The corners of Andrés’s mouth twitch and Martín wants nothing more than to crawl inside the tiny wrinkles of that stupid crooked smile and live there forever. “It’s a date.”

As soon as the door slams shut and Andrés has gone away, Martín considers it.

 _I did my part. I avoided him, ran from him. But he still found me. He still fucking found me._ _Maybe we’re soulmates after all._

But then he laughs, a low and bitter sound, and the thoughts vanish as quickly as they came. 

No. Absolutely not. He cannot allow it. _Will not_ allow it. He’s too greedy, too selfish. He knows he won’t be able to control himself when he has Andrés again. Won’t hold himself back from touching, kissing, _belonging_. And everything will play out exactly as it did in all those times he jumped.

Andrés will die.

It seems painfully obvious in retrospect, but he finally understands what needs to be done.

_Sometimes distance is the only way to find peace._

So he shuts his eyes and allows time to consume him.

***

He makes sure this time.

He doesn’t become an engineer. Rids himself of that asset, and becomes a mechanic instead.

Cars are greasy and loud and dirty. But they’re a puzzle all on their own; and every now and then, Martín is fascinated by them.

He doesn’t stay in Buenos Aires for long. He moves to some remote, backwoods town, population 170, in a place he was sure Andrés would never in his fucking life visit. 

And it works. 

They never meet. 

He keeps track of the news, unable to help himself. He finds that he’s always craving, always _searching_ for Andrés, in whatever small pieces might be available to him. Like a beggar, he takes what he can get, thankful he’s getting anything at all — 

Snippets from the newspapers. A couple of robberies mentioned on the radio. The police are always stumped. But Martín smiles, because he knows — he knows who the culprit is. _Who else would be that clever, that daring, that devious?_

The diamonds in Paris. His mugshot. A face he’s kissed a thousand times at this point. But in this life, Andrés doesn’t know him. 

Sergio goes on with the Mint heist. He hopes this time it will be different. 

But Andrés still dies.

At this point, he’s too tired to reset time. It’s exhausting. Hopeless. No matter what he does, it seems as though Andrés’s fate is sealed. _Destined for death._ So he opts to curl himself up into a ball in his bed, letting his pillow soak in his tears. Maybe tomorrow, he could try again. He can always try again. Next time for sure, he’ll get it right. Next time, next jump.

That night, he dreams.

“ _Martín_.” says Andrés, _his_ Andrés. He knows it. He could tell by the glint in Andrés's eyes and the way he leans down toward him, brushing the hair away from Martín’s face. There’s a soft kiss to his lips — gentle, reassuring. Martín wants to sob. “Come back to me.”

_But where are you?_

“You know where.” That smile. He’s torn countless universes apart for the chance to see it again. “Come back to me.”

***

Time resets, and it’s back to the monastery.

This awful, _dreadful_ night.

He can still feel the hot tears fresh on his face, and a slight ache on his back from where he hit the wall. Slowly, he starts to pick up the faint sounds of footsteps, and it registers to him that Andrés is _leaving_. 

Martín doesn’t think twice when he bolts from his spot, running towards Andrés and grabbing him by the sleeve of his coat, pulling with such force that they almost collide.

Andrés turns around, looking angry and confused, but _oh_ , his eyes — they have tears in them too.

“I know you’re sick.” Martín blurts out, before Andrés could say anything. “I don’t care. I love you. If you want to melt gold, I’ll melt it with you. If you want to print money, I’ll do that too. I don’t care. Just let me be with you, please. I want to be with you.”

The lights are dim, and Martín can only make out the reflection of a single tear as it slides down Andrés’s face. He reaches out, cups Andrés’s chin and gently wipes it away with his thumb.

“ _Please_.”

And time freezes.

At this one singular moment, multiple possibilities seem to branch out, multiple lives, multiple beginnings, and multiple endings. Andrés could still walk away, still leave him. Still die. 

“Martín.” Andrés says, voice barely above a whisper. And it’s just a name, _his name_. Yet it feels like an answer, and a prayer, and a thousand other things Martín can’t name.

Then Andrés takes off his hat and kisses him.

*** 

“There’s a universe out there where we don’t end up together.” Martín whispers, rubbing circles on the bare skin of Andrés’s chest. “And a universe where we don’t ever meet _at all_.” 

The air is cool in the monastery, and the heat of their naked bodies pressed together keeps them warm. Martín sighs when Andrés slides his hands into his hair, tugging on the strands, massaging his scalp.

“I know.” Andrés murmurs, raising one eyebrow when Martín’s eyes widen. He smirks, mischievous. _Bastard._ “And I’m truly sorry about that, _querido_. I was a coward then.”

Martín wants to ask him how he could possibly know, but Andrés kisses him before he could even open his mouth. Then there are kisses everywhere, tender and soft. Martín groans, and the questions are lost to his pleasure, unimportant after all.

“I’m still dying though, Martín.” Andrés whispers, pushing their foreheads together. “No matter what you do, that won’t ever change.”

“Your mitochondria.”

“ _Si_ , my mitochondria.” Another kiss, sweeter than the last. “A nasty little thing, that.”

“I can try again. Maybe it will be different. A universe where you don’t die.”

Andrés shushes him and plants a long, tender kiss to his forehead. “That’s impossible. I die in every universe, and so will you.”

“ _But –”_

“Hush.” Andrés rubs his thumbs over Martín’s cheeks and then wraps himself around him, like a protective cocoon. “Stop thinking of other realities. We’re here now, aren’t we? And I love you, Martín. I _have_ loved you, in each possible reality, in every version of the universe. And I promise I’ll stay with you, for as long as I can. I won’t leave, I won’t walk away. And we can print money and melt gold and make love for as long as we have time. And we have time now, Martín. So much of it. Isn’t that enough?”

Martín looks at him for a long while, searching for something like doubt in Andrés’s eyes, but finding none.

Only then does he allow himself to lean in, to take what was clearly being offered — _allowed_. He kisses Andrés and it’s like time ebbs away. Nothing around them exists, it’s just this one moment, suspended in space. The two of them, together. Always together. 

And then Andrés is pressing him down on the mattress, grinding his hips, capturing Martín’s moans with his mouth. “I said I love you, Martín. Aren’t you going to say it back?” 

“I love you too, Andrés.” he gasps.

“That’s more like it.”

Soon the words are gone and they allow their bodies to speak the things left unsaid. Limbs tangled, mouths hot and nearly swollen, naked skin against naked skin, Andrés being inside him. It’s all so _wonderful_.

Afterwards, Andrés falls asleep in his arms, in the middle of murmuring sweet nothings. Martín runs his hands through his hair, kisses the top of his head. Finally, he too closes his eyes, drifting off to sleep.

And time carries on.

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> I am going through it and I absolutely projected all my feelings on my poor Argentenian boy. Forgive me.
> 
> My writing [twitter](https://twitter.com/BR3KKERS) where I will rant endlessly about these two fools.
> 
> Feel free to yell at me in the comments!


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